LISA O

I haven’t written in a while. I’m in a fog, and I need it to lift. Maybe getting words out will help. The theme that keeps circling in this fog is purpose. I’m pissed at myself for not moving past it. I’ve been hiding behind this so-called “lack of purpose” as an excuse for why I’m really in this fog. The truth is simpler, uglier: I hate being alone. I fucking hate it.

I hate the silence of a room. It cranks up the noise in my head—the voice telling me to get a purpose, get a job, build a routine, get over myself, get over my trauma. And all I want to do is scream: FUCK YOU to the silent room. FUCK YOU to the noise in my head. FUCK YOU to all the outside influences pushing this idea of purpose on me.

But here’s the thing—today I saw it for what it is. The influence isn’t coming from out there. It’s me. I’m the one projecting this theme. No one’s blocking me. No one’s standing in my way but me.

So here I am. In the silence of my living room. Three books sitting on the coffee table.

The first—Cultural Change Among The Algonquins. Bob’s book. He leaves books in every room, like breadcrumbs of his curiosity. He’s reading them all at once. It’s endearing as hell—how deep he goes into his research, how he disappears into learning.

The other two books are mine. They’re not here as reminders to read them. They’re reminders to check myself.

The second—Sally Mann’s On the Creative Life. I could go on about her photography, how I’ve been drawn to it since the ’90s. But today it’s just the title that matters. It reminds me: I don’t need to create something big, or influential, to live a creative life. I can live it by being immersed in art, culture, beauty—by being a patron, an enthusiast, someone who notices. That’s enough. That’s me.

The third—Kristin Neff’s Self-Compassion. Plain cover. Sub-title in blue: “The proven power of being kind to yourself.” I picked it up at a workshop for spouses of first responders with PTSD. I wanted to connect with others, to prepare for the road Bob and I may face. To show up with compassion, eyes wide open—for him, for me, for our family. But self-compassion? That’s where I crumble. The noise drowns it out. So this book stays on the table until I can crack it open and start turning down that damn volume.

I don’t know if the FUCK YOUS or the anger ever really break me through. Sometimes you have to rage, to scream, to feel it all just to move. I’ve done it before. It feels good in the moment, but it fades. The high always fades.

Today I didn’t fight. I just noticed. I saw the fog rolling in, heavy and familiar. And I chose this instead: my coffee table books as anchors, as reminders, as my guides through to the other side.